Forty Years in Space
by SarahBlackwood
Summary: Soon after the events of FIVE, Alex attends her parents' funeral for the second time. There she encounters someone whose role in her past, present and future can't be ignored. But will this someone jump-start Alex and Gene's relationship or destroy it?
1. Two days after

Sorry this note is so long. I usually never do this. I promise the notes will be much shorter in the future:

Those of you who have been following my fic **One Second, **please forgive me. This story demanded to be told NOW. My will was not my own.

It takes place after the events of **FIVE,** my completed Ashes to Ashes fan fiction. It's probably easiest to read **FIVE** first. **One Second** hasn't been abandoned in fact I'm almost done with the next chapter. It's not absolutely necessary to read **One Second** (such as it is) before reading this next one but it might help.

If you haven't read **One Second** it's important to know: In my world Alex Price moved to the US to work for the CIA as a counsellor when she was 23. She met and married David Drake there. They had Molly. Their marriage ended at some point. If you've seen the series you know the rest. In light of the new series this story is probably AU. (Unless I can read the minds of the makers of Ashes)

Thanks to Lucida Bright for the beta. You're a Goddess. Seriously. You really make me think and that's the best an aspiring writer can hope for from a beta reader.

Thanks to Lilgreenmomo for inspiring this story. Bollie is all yours. This is your birthday present! Happy Birthday- hope it's a great year for you.

Most of these characters don't belong to me. Just playing.

Forty Years in Space

His fingers fumble slightly against her spine as he buttons her into the black dress with patience entirely out of character. The silence in the room is almost tangible, heavy and dusty like cotton layers between breakables. Her hearing is fine, he simply has precious little to say to her and this too is uncharacteristic. The flirting has stopped and the arguing, the few words he does speak to her are painfully polite and carefully chosen. Two days it's been like this, two and a half. She thought it might get better after a while if she just ignored his mood and tried to go on as before. It's not better.

She should have asked Shaz to help her or Luigi's wife, anyone would be better than him. But he was at hand and so here he stands, stooped slightly, pushing tiny pearl button after tiny pearl button through the fragile loops with slow fingers. She should have worn something she could get into unaided but her wardrobe is still limited and her other black dress is inappropriately short and tight. She didn't think she'd be attending her parents' funeral for the second time in her life.

As he reaches the last few buttons his fingertips brush the nape of her neck and Alex can't help thinking for the hundredth time how silly and backwards this whole situation is. Two days ago they stood in this very room and she let Gene Hunt remove every article of her clothing with a deliberateness and intensity that excited and frightened her in equal amounts. Today, the day they lay Tim and Caroline Price into the ground, Gene is helping her into her dress with the same deliberateness but none of the passion.

"Perfect." There is a slight hesitance in his voice as he says that word, as if he was about to add something but changed his mind. His hand hovers near the small of her back and Alex closes her eyes and wills him to touch her again. To her embarrassment a small desperate sound escapes from her mouth and she turns to face him abruptly. Hunt looks surprised and a little worried; he grips her shoulders tightly with both his hands and then looks down at them in confusion as if he doesn't recognise his own fingers. She can't figure out what he's thinking and she has no more energy to ask him directly, to manipulate the situation, perhaps to press her lips to his and pick up where they left off two days ago. She isn't even sure she wants to do that anymore. In the last two days she's asked him if everything is okay so many times, even now those words are balanced on the tip of her tongue, poised, ready to slip out if she isn't vigilant. She's learned her lesson though. Ray was the last one who asked Hunt if anything was the matter; he'd shut up pretty quickly when he saw the dart the Guv had been holding, embedded in the wall only a few centimetres away from where his ear had been but seconds ago.

"All right, Bolls?" Hunt asks, filling the silence, his eyes never leaving her face. Alex doesn't dare look him directly, she doesn't dare answer. She can feel her cheeks growing hot, the fluttering of nerves in the pit of her stomach. He stares at her still, his expression a mystery, his mouth a thin, neutral line, he asks her if she is all right but then he closes up like a clam, not ready for her answer. What is this absurd dance? Will it ever be over? She takes a step forward and he takes five back, he takes two steps forward and she runs for cover. She wants to shake him and scream, to throw a fit. Not now though, not a scant hour before the Price funeral. This isn't the time for dramatics, best to just remain silent. On the other hand this could be her last chance to tell him what she thinks he wants to hear:

It doesn't have to mean anything.

It was probably a mistake.

It was a mistake.

She'd give anything to take back the events of two days ago.

It wasn't their fault, the bomb, Kirsty Andrews' disappearance and death, Alex Price's kidnapping and Gallagher's murder all led up to that moment of weakness.

They could just pretend it never happened. If he wants to.

Oh God, I hope he doesn't want to, Alex thinks.

He takes a step towards her and for one heady moment Alex is sure he's going to kiss her after all. Instead he rubs a thumb under her right eye. She's disgusted by herself, she never learns, she still hasn't learned all his habits, she still lets herself be fooled.

"Your make up's smudged." He murmurs.

"Thanks. You look nice." She gives him her best smile hoping it will reassure him.

"You do too." His eyes sweep over her, over the elegant, high necked black dress with its discreet pearl buttons, the new hair style and the repaired makeup.

It suddenly feels so hopeless. This whole scene reminds her so horribly of the end of her marriage, when she and David had spent hours together, getting dressed up for dinners where neither of them spoke or ate more than a few bites, it felt like putting on a costume, painting on a mask, playing a role, denying anything was wrong, when it was all so rotten, rotten from the core. Still there had been something hopeful about those nights too, as if things could go back to the way they had been before if they could just find the right clothes to wear, the right perfume. Going to this funeral with Hunt feels exactly the same; she is torn between desperately wanting to go with him and the desire to spend the next week safe under the covers.

"Let's stay here and get drunk instead." She says before she can stop herself. There's a spark in his eye reminiscent of the old Gene Genie but it's gone again in a flash.

"Bolly. Alex. I know how you felt about the Prices…" He starts.

"How I…felt?" She interrupts him; panic tears through her chest without warning, like a forest fire flaring up on a dry summer day. What does he know about her relationship with the Prices? How dare he presume to know how she feels? Even she isn't sure she knows how she felt about them.

"You wouldn't want to miss this." He says, his words have just the right amount of steel behind them and Alex realises this is a command. Why though?

As she slips her feet into the black satin stilettos she wishes she had begged off sooner, fabricated an illness or an important appointment. Had she thought of it sooner she could have gone in by herself, snuck in after Gene and the others took their seats. They wouldn't have to know she was there. She wouldn't have to sit with Hunt. Too late now. Gene's face is grim as he helps her into her coat, his eyes cold and hard. She wonders if this is all her doing. Could that one silly afternoon have changed him so utterly? Who is this humourless man, dressing her for her parents' funeral like an executioner readying a prisoner for the block?

The funeral doesn't seem real until Alex is sitting down at the back next to Gene, just as she has been dreading all morning long. She chooses this seat for a number of reasons. One is that she doesn't want to risk coming face to face with her younger self. Another is the acute desire to stay as far away from Evan as she can manage. Yet another is the horrible nausea that wracks her body at the first sight of the space which will soon hold the single coffin containing her parents' remains. By far the best reason for choosing this seat, she tells herself, is that here, she has a good view of all the guests as they say their goodbyes, at least a better view than the one she had the first time round when everyone was taller than she was. The first time around the confusion, discomfort, awkward silences and bursts of tears and emotion had been too much for her eight year old self to bear. She'd turned inward, stared at her new shoes and longed to be at home in her own room again instead of this overheated place. This time Alex will be able to see everyone as they pass her to take their seats: all the people coming to pay their respects to her parents. Lawyers, politicians, policemen, clients, a group of women from a feminist group Caroline supported, a cluster of refugees Tim was helping, old friends, old enemies; an impressive collection of people. And then finally she'll be able to see Evan looking uncomfortable and tired holding Alex Price's hand, Alex Price herself in the new dark grey dress he chose for her and the coffin. Alex half listens to the voices around her, the fond memories and kind words. The sentence "they were so happy" is repeated over and over again. If they only knew, she can't help thinking. It dawns on Alex that she is really here again. She can smell the incense, and mixture of perfumes and old cigarette smoke emanating from the crowd. She turns to face the door and sees the priest just entering, then the pallbearers and the dreaded coffin and then Evan and Alex Price . Fear prickles Alex's scalp. She knows her parents are dead, she knows why, she knows she failed to save them, but she still can't bear to see this.

She needs to get away, she needs someone to comfort her, she needs to be at home in 2008; she needs Molly. 'Oh Molly, why am I here?' she wonders 'What are you going through without me?' The next thought rises unbidden to the surface of Alex's mind. It had always been there, like an unreachable splinter too deep under the skin, she had just not chosen to think it until now: Should she have trusted the vision of Molly that appeared after Kirsty Andrews was found dead? That pale faced demon? Was it a mistake to choose Gene? Would it have made a difference had she promised to give him up? No sooner do these thoughts cross her mind then an ear-splitting cry erupts from the front of the room.

"You caused this, White, you son of a bitch! It's your fault! And now you're going to stand there accepting condolences like a grieving widower!" A woman with an American accent screams.

A storm of weeping follows and then the scuffle of heels against the stone of the floor, causing Gene to stiffen in his seat beside her. His hand closes on her wrist almost viciously and he manoeuvres her away from the aisle into his seat just as Chris and Ray brush past, either side of a sobbing woman with long black hair, dramatic red lips and streaked makeup: Aunt Carol. A cloud of Chanel no. 5 hits Alex; of course Aunt Carol, who else?

Alex had been waiting for this moment. Dreading it and looking forward to it at the same time. It seems childish memory has not elaborated on this scene in the slightest.

"Just escorting the lady outside, Guv." Chris explains unnecessarily. Suddenly Carol lunges for Gene and grabs hold of his arm, long red fingernails digging into it.

"You're police." Carol doesn't quite ask while Gene futilely attempts to pry her fingers from his sleeve. "Then why don't you arrest that leech Evan White? This is all his doing."

She reaches out towards Alex beseechingly, her eyes thankfully unfocused. Drugged? Alex backs away, she doesn't think Carol would recognise her, after all her own mother didn't, but then Aunt Carol was always unnaturally perceptive. The hand that isn't attached to Gene's suit sleeve snakes forward and brushes Alex's wrist. The sudden contact with Carol causes Alex to recoil in shock and Gene moves instinctively to shield her from the hysterical woman. A wave of relief hits Alex, momentarily drowning every other thought but one: He's protecting me. He still cares enough to protect me. Ray and Chris react at once dragging the woman away from Alex and Gene and attempting to push her through the door. Out of the corner of her eye Alex sees Carol swipe at Ray like an enraged cat, leaving an angry red mark on his cheek and then the door slams shut behind them and Alex sits back down hard. So that was Aunt Carol, she looks so absurdly young. The last time Alex had seen Carol was in the year 2000, she was a 61 year old woman then. She must be in her early forties now, but she looks no older than Alex herself.

As a child Alex had seen Carol as something of a force of nature. She'd likened her to the evil black fairy in Sleeping Beauty, enraged at not being invited to the christening. The words she shouted at Evan had seemed like a mortal curse now they sound empty, hollow, and childish. Now she thinks Carol must be insane. Insane with grief or simply insane- Alex can't tell. Must she lose everything she once believed in? Must the memory of everyone she once cherished be tarnished? How much of what she knows about Carol is true? What will she find out about Aunt Carol? Did she betray her too? Like her father or Evan?

This is what she's always been sure of:

Carol Roth and Tim Price had met while he was studying at Yale for a year. She'd been wild, a real rebel; later she became a freelance journalist, who knew no limits when it came to landing a story. She could show up at a gala in pearls and a see through dress as easily as she could hike through a rainforest without showering for days or stand in a blood-drenched square during a putsch. They'd stayed in contact over the years; she'd even flown to London for Tim's wedding to his sweetheart Caroline. Tim had sometimes said that for years the two most important women in his life had shared a name, almost, until Alex was born. As a teenager she'd often wondered why Tim had chosen the plainer and more serious Caroline when he could have been jetting off to the far reaches of the globe joining the more hands on fight for human rights with Carol.

Carol had always seemed glamorous, like a movie star. She used to send her care packages from the United States filled with lipstick and cassettes and glossy American teen magazines. She used to visit once a year around Christmas and take her shopping for something decadent that Evan always hated. Carol had bought her first pair of high heels; she'd convinced the Director of Support, Bolland, to give her the job as a counsellor with the CIA that changed the course of Alex's life, and she'd bought Alex the ticket to Washington DC and offered her a room in her flat. She'd been there when Alex met and married David Drake, a CIA operative who had been too charming for his own good, too adventurous and too much in love with Alex. She'd held her hand at Molly's birth. It had been eight years since she last saw Carol. Even now she can still feel the sting of her last shouted words. That last argument had played no small role in her decision to pack up Molly and all their belongings and return home to London, perhaps an even larger role than the divorce from David. Evan had been pleased at least, he'd never liked Carol. Alex had always known how upset Evan had been by the terrible scene at the funeral. Now she wonders what else Carol had known about Evan, what he had known about her.

Alex swallows stomach acid; her body's protesting spasms pulling her away from memories and into the present. The past? Evan and Alex Price have reached the front of the church among gasps and shocked whispers. Alex hopes she can escape before the funeral service begins. Her nostrils sting, her eyes water, she scrambles over Gene's legs ignoring his protesting hiss and stumbles in her high heels. A hand on her elbow steadies her.

"Careful now."

Alex looks up with a start at the sound of a man's voice. The man standing before her, no longer holding her elbow, is instantly familiar. Dark hair, dark eyes, the straight nose of a marble statue, a soft mouth, mobile, he's smiling but his eyes hold no mirth. He holds out his hand to Hunt who shakes it distractedly looking ahead at Evan White, who is now trying to calm the crowd so that the service can start at last.

"Please accept my apologies." The man says; his accent is American, Californian if Alex remembers correctly. "Ms. Roth is distraught. She was very close to Mr. Price."

Alex flicks her eyes down to the hand stretched out for her to shake, the tip of his middle finger is missing; she takes his hand gingerly her throat so dry she can barely swallow. If there had ever been any doubt there is no mistaking him now. The eyes, the smile, the mutilated finger, he'd be about 36 in 1981, yes that was about right. The scar near his upper lip is missing and his nose is too straight, his hair is too dark; but other than that it's obvious. Of course she knows him after all he had given her chance with the CIA all those years ago. He is Bolland, Nicholas Bolland, called Bollie; it's now 10 years before he will be made Director of Support for the CIA. It will be another 6 years after that before Alex Price, an enthusiastic 23 year old flies to Washington DC to live with her Aunt Carol and work as a counsellor for the CIA. They'll finally meet at a party, Aunt Carol will introduce them, reluctantly, there's a bitter note to Carol's voice when she says his name. Alex will be wearing a short, dark blue Chinese dress embroidered with golden dragons she'll be holding on to her boyfriend David's arm as if she's afraid to let go. When she gives Bolland her hand to shake he will grip it in a similar manner, colour will stain his face and neck, and he will look down at the floor. Alex Price will blush bright red too but shake Bolland's reaction to her off, as the eccentric behaviour of a sentimental old man who had known her as a child. Now, Alex isn't too sure.

She remembers that first hand shake in 1997 all too clearly, for him, it hadn't been the first, this was, this handshake in 1981. She's still holding on to his hand too shocked to move, when she looks up at Nicholas Bolland's face he's looking back at her intently, with interest but no recognition. Obviously he's only just meeting her. There's something else there too as his eyes gaze into hers, a slightly dazed look. She struggles to think of something reassuring to say to him but before she can speak he slips out of the door after Ray and Chris and Carol.

Hunt looks displeased, his blue eyes are narrowed, his jaw tight, but he isn't looking at Alex, he's still looking at Evan. There's something pointed in the way he does this as if it's preferable to stare at White rather than deal with Alex.

"That man." Alex says marvelling at her thin, trembling voice. "I thought I recognised him."

The fact that Gene doesn't even grace this with an answer cuts like a knife.


	2. Friday on my mind

Here at last is my 2nd chapter of Forty Years in Space. Sorry it took so long! It was a horror to write and I'm so glad to be able to post it. For a while there I felt like tossing the whole project.

Lucida Bright: you are seriously the best beta ever. Thank you so much! I got lost somewhere along the way and you really saved me. This chapter really only exists because of you. Thanks for bending out of character characters back into shape and generally being patient with me.

Thanks to Lilgreenmomo for being so patient and spending so many evenings listening to me run the plot ideas past you again and again and again. In case you've forgotten, this story is still all yours.

Enjoy! Review!! I hope I get the next chapter to you faster despite starting a new job on the first of July.

_Friday, two days before they buried her parents, she got up, got dressed, walked to work, sat down, started on her paperwork. She'd checked in the mirror, she looked a bit tired but otherwise normal, no one remarked on her agitated mood. The night before, in front of Luigi's restaurant, Gene Hunt had kissed her as the rain poured down. _

_Her stomach quivered every time she thought about it. He'd kissed her hard and long and studied her face with those intense blue eyes. She hadn't slept at all that night but instead lay in bed, hot and cold simultaneously, every nerve in her body vibrating. She tried to concentrate on her work but her eyes continuously strayed towards the door of Hunt's office. He was in there on the phone and she couldn't think of an excuse to interrupt him. She finally grabbed an empty file and marched into his office confidently. Confident she wouldn't need an excuse once he saw her. He was just hanging up the phone when she opened the door and looked up at her in surprise. He half rose out of his chair and gestured for her to enter._

_They spoke at the same time and then laughed nervously. They agreed just to exit the building casually without explaining themselves; that way hopefully the others would think they were off on official police business._

_The walk to Luigi's and Alex's flat was slow, silent, their hands occasionally brushing as if by accident, each touch was like a miniature explosion on Alex's skin. The sun glinted mercilessly through the window. In the living room Alex and Gene stood before each other, suddenly unsure where to start. It felt somehow like an illicit affair and Alex could barely contain her joy at the thought of what was to come. This wasn't a dream; Gene Hunt was in her flat removing his shoes and socks, his black overcoat and gloves and tossing them to the floor. Alex followed suit and let her jacket fall and prepared to unbutton her blouse. _

"_Stop." Hunt said, suddenly dead serious. Alex obeyed him and let her hands drop to her sides. He kissed her then, hungrily, urgently, she laughed softly against his mouth but he silenced her with more kisses. _

_His hands were at the buttons at her throat, trembling too furiously to unbutton her blouse properly. _

"_Just rip it." Alex breathed._

_A high, thin sound of impatience escaped him and he shook his head steadying his hands and freeing each mother of pearl button from its buttonhole until her blouse gaped open to reveal her white lace bra and naked stomach._

"_Oh." Gene said, the word strangled by desire._

"_You've already seen me naked, remember?" Alex whispered. Shaz had been there. In her delirium after the bomb she had lain naked in bed incapable of dressing herself, incapable of moving, he'd pulled her back to reality. She remembered his crushing embrace, the leather of his gloves on her bare skin, if he had desired her then she hadn't been able to tell. _

"_You were ill then. T_is_his is different." He said and reached forward and ran a finger along her ribs and then cupped one breast with one hand. Alex leaned forward, desperate to pull at his clothes, to feel his skin warm against hers but he shook his head at her and held her at arm's length._

"_My turn, Bolly."_

_He stripped the blouse from her and pulled down the straps of her bra one by one, a little rough now though she knew he could be gentle. He paused as if composing himself, his breathing coming heavier now with the monstrous effort. 'Never mind control!' Alex longed to shout. 'Just do it!' But this was a game, and if he could play it then so could she. She stood still, barely breathing, as he undid her bra with that quick motion some men seem to know innately and her breasts tumbled free. Alex swallowed raggedly and closed her eyes, behind her back she locked her fingers together and dug her fingernails into the skin of her thumb. Gene was at the closure of her skirt slowly working the zipper down until it slithered past her hips and pooled at her feet. Then her boots came off, Alex thanked God she hadn't thought to wear stockings today, she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand still. She now stood naked but for her black cotton knickers. She looked down at the floor where her clothing lay scattered, the silk blouse, the black boots, the skirt with its drooping lining, the ivory lace bra that didn't match the black of her underpants. Then she looked up at Gene, he had stepped back as if to admire his handiwork, running his eyes over her body; like he owned her. A wave of lust washed over Alex. There was no sound in the flat but the cars in the street, the drifting sounds from the restaurant below. For a second she imagined she could hear his heart beating, hear the blood in his veins, but that rapid thumping in her ears was the sound of her own heartbeat. Then he moved so close to her she could feel the cloth of his suit against her thighs._

"_Why are you still dressed?" She asked somewhat stupidly, trembling with the effort of not touching him, not kissing him._

_He hooked his fingers under the elastic of the waistband of her knickers and tugged them off in one clean motion. His breath was a shallow rasp, he knelt before her his hands on her hips. Then he pressed his lips to her hip bone almost reverently and Alex could no longer control herself._

_In the flash of an eye she had removed his jacket, tie and shirt__ and vest, stopping once to marvel at his naked chest, his hands were all over her now, as she fumbled with his belt and pulled off his trousers. Gene held on to her shoulders as if he might fall without her there to support him. His touch was painfully sweet. Blindly they stumbled forward, clumsily groping for each other till their mouths connected, gasping, as if when apart they couldn't breathe. Alex broke the kiss roughly; she slid her hand teasingly under the waistband of his pants and then pulled them down. His breathing was harsh; he said her name quickly, softly as if testing it out._

"_Alex."_

_And then again louder._

"_Alex, my Alex."_

_Her own name never sounded more beautiful to her._

Monday: Alex is back to not sleeping again. Instead she keeps going over the events of three days ago in her head. As painful as it is she can't help herself. When she can no longer bear to think of Gene she thinks of Bollie. She tries to remember everything she possibly can about Nicholas Bolland. She wishes she could call David and ask him, Bolland was David's friend. She can't call him; in this world David is probably sitting in boarding school dying his hair blue and generally being the bane of his mother's existence. She goes over what she knows about Bolland. In 1997, when she went to Washington, Nicholas Bolland was Director of Support for the CIA. He was a veteran of Vietnam, where he lost a finger. He had been married and divorced and had two children. He'd run for Mayor of San Francisco and Aunt Carol had worked with him on his campaign. Carol had slept with him once to hear her tell it. No, she'd said they'd been lovers but something tells Alex Carol isn't the most trustworthy of people when it comes to that sort of thing. Carol often said she'd asked him to take Alex on as a counsellor, thinking it was time for her to get away from Evan. He'd said yes because he remembered the funeral and the days that followed. Despite the sad reason for travelling to London he'd always looked back at those days fondly.

Then there was the story David had told her about Bolland, a story he managed to worm out of the Director of Support after a couple of drinks. That he'd only been in love once, a woman he met in London, years before he ever considered working for the CIA. It was a brief but intense affair, she'd left him and he had never gotten over her. David often said that he'd made up his mind to marry Alex after hearing that story. He hadn't wanted to risk Alex slipping through his fingers.

Alex remembers Bolland's expression at that cocktail party. The party David took her to three months after she'd arrived in DC. She had been 23, Bolland had been 52. It occurs to her now that he hadn't recognised that 8 year old girl now all grown up. He'd recognised her, Alex Drake. He hadn't seemed confused or shocked. He must have somehow, somehow put together what had happened. It occurs to Alex he may have even told David the story on purpose. If she is that woman; she is Bolland's great love. How can this be when Alex wants Gene so much it aches? How will the great affair start? And why? Does it have to start? She goes through the facts again and again till her vision is blurred. In 1981 Alex Price is 8 years old. The year 35 year old Alex Drake arrives in the past. The year Nicholas Bolland, age 36, meets the love of his life, a woman he only has a handful of days with. As far as she can tell, she, Alex Drake is that woman, Bolland's lost love. In 1991 Bolland is made Director of Support for the CIA. Six years later he hires Alex Price because Carol tells him to. January 1997 Alex Price meets Bolland for the first time. Except it wasn't the first time. He recognised her, impossible as it seems, he must have. Alex can feel the walls of her mind shutting down like an overheated computer. There is no way to think this through logically. There are no reference books for this, no experts she can question, no statistics. All she had was Sam Tyler and even his tapes are lost to her.

She's almost relieved when Chris calls her to tell her the body of a young man who'd gone missing some days ago turned up in the gutter the night before. This will give her something different to think about. She reads a bit of the hastily thrown together file on the way to the path lab. The victim was a young man, barely twenty three. There's a photo of him, taken when he was arrested during a student protest. He was a pretty young man with a very smooth almost girlish face. His name was Jacob Lacey, a photographer for some rag that followed the Princess Diana around. He'd left behind a young wife; they'd been married a scant two months. The wife had identified him. Chris says he's going around the corner to the Paki shop for some fags; he's already seen the body and doesn't want to ever again.

Alex enters the room with Ray and the Guv and the mortuary assistant leads them to the table where Lacey's corpse is laid out; Ray warns Alex to brace herself.

Lacey's face has been beaten so badly it is purple and swollen past the point of being recognisable. Every one of his fingers has been broken and three of the fingernails on his left hand have been removed. He was young and slender; the bones of his neck are fine, fragile. The skin of his arms is dotted with cigarette burns. Glaring purple bruises mar his thighs, his knees have been shattered.

"He's been tortured." Ray says.

"There's a bloody understatement." Hunt mutters.

Below the waist he's a map of cuts, bruises and burns in spirals and sunbursts.

"Not all this was done while he was alive." The pathologist says. "This wasn't a thug torturing a victim. Someone played with him, someone deranged."

Ray is listening to him with uneasy interest.

Alex scans the victim's legs, his toes have been broken too and a thin red line encircles his calves that could have been made with a wire.

"This is someone who didn't even see him as a human anymore but a work of art." She says.

"Some work of art." Ray says his voice laden with queasiness covered up with a strange false cheerfulness.

The genitals have been mutilated as well; wire adorns them, according to the pathologist he was still alive when this was done.

"Must have been kosher that one, someone has circumcised him." He smirks looking at Gene for support. Gene smirks back.

"Cut down in his prime, eh Ray?" He says.

"Pull yourselves together!" Alex shouts her voice trembling with emotion. "A man is dead, a young man, practically a boy. He left behind a wife of two months, how do you think she feels right now?"

Ray looks sheepish; he stares at his feet and picks at his fingernails. Gene is silent; his eyes rest on her face unwaveringly until she can't take it anymore and looks away.

"I think I've seen enough." She says and strides out of the room slamming the door behind her.

It's all too much. Being away from Molly, the furious analysing of the situation, trying to find some loophole in this world, some way to return to her child. Her parents dying, again. Alex Price kidnapped, the revelation of her friendship with the murderer Gallagher, his death, Bolland showing up at her parent's funeral, the decision she's going to have to make about him. And Gene, Gene, Gene Hunt, his lips against her throat, waking up hours later alone, the rush of exultation then the confusion. The strange polite silence of Saturday and Sunday. The feeling they've passed the moment, they're going to tiptoe around each other forever now. She leans against the wall her head spinning.

After a time Gene joins her. They stand beside each other in silence. Gene is smoking, she can hear him inhale and exhale and the faint crackle of the cigarette paper burning. When she looks up she finds him staring at her, his expression full as pity, as if she's a little lost girl.

"Sorry Guv, I'm calm now. I…the corpse…" She stumbles over the lie.

"It wasn't the corpse, Alex." Hunt says. "You haven't been right for days. Weeks. Ever since the Price murder. They buried them yesterday, Bolls. What's it going to take? Say goodbye, get back to work. That's all there is to it. Move on."

Alex eyes him nervously. She wishes she could explain to him the nature of her relationship with the Prices; that it isn't that easy, it's never over. He crushes the butt of his cigarette beneath his boot. She wants to ask him what Friday afternoon meant to him. She wants him to tell him it meant the world to her. That it was terrifying and wonderful and nothing at all like she thought it would be. She wants to ask why he left afterwards. But every time she starts to ask the words crumble in her mouth.

"Bolly." Gene is saying. "Are you listening?"

Alex manages a small nod. "Guv, Gene, Friday afternoon, I, you, we…" She pauses. She's normally so articulate, now every word is painful, like spitting up razorblades.

Gene sighs. "It was…perhaps we shouldn't have…Christ, Bolls, now's not the time."

She stares at him determined not to cry. Her mouth a perfect circle of shock.

He reaches over a gives her shoulder a small squeeze. "We'll talk about this later. You go home and get some rest. I have to see about finding Lacey's killer. Come back when you're ready."

There it is again, that awful politeness, that gentleness; he's treating her like a porcelain doll, like some silly woman with the vapours. Gene turns and walks back into the mortuary slowly, looking back at Alex once.

The tightness in her chest is crippling her, Alex closes her eyes, afraid if she opens them the tears will spill out and never stop flowing. When she opens them again he's gone. She stares at the spot where Gene had stood as if she can make him return by sheer force of will. She's hollow, exhausted, ice lines her stomach, ice that encroaches upon all her extremities bit by bit until her throat closes up and she's gasping for air. She's determined not to fall here. She starts walking away slowly. At first she thinks she might be walking home but then she realises she just needs to move. She needs to get as far away from Gene as she can, away from anything that reminds her of him. She has to stop thinking of him, stop trying to make sense of what happened and what it means for her future in this world. Does it mean she is finally going home to Molly? If so, why does she hurt so? She stops in her tracks. This ends now, if she doesn't think of something else she will explode.

She starts with her sleeve. She looks down at it. It's not white leather she thinks. It's not. If she thinks hard enough it could be soft, fleecy wool; rust coloured, trimmed in black; her favourite autumn jacket. In her hand she holds a key ring, several keys on it; the keys to her house. She pushes one into the lock and opens the door, the door of her house. If she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other she could be walking into her hall. She can see it now, through the London street superimposed upon it. Her shoes are brown, practical, flat; she removes them one by one and places them against the wall with care. She can feel the wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet; good wood but in need of a polishing. She glances around at the photos on the wall: Molly at two holding David's hand in the park, at four dressed as a princess, school picture at eleven, Mum, Dad, Alex upon making DI. She looks down again. Shoes line the wall. Running shoes, flat shoes for work, high heels, sandals, Molly's scuffed school shoes, Evan sized house slippers. She enters the kitchen, the room they live in. The large walnut table in the centre of the room is heaped with case files and homework covered in Molly's round script, a photograph of Sam Tyler looking pale and pensive. A pile of postcards from David, bright with foreign stamps, David's spidery handwriting scrawled casually across the cards and beside it Judith's precise lettering.

She concentrates harder; there is Molly at the sink drinking water from her favourite glass, the one with goldfish on it. She's gulping water down, pausing once to pick a stray wisp of hair from between her lips. She's always thirsty after school.

"Mum, can I sleep over at Janet's tonight?" She asks between gulps.

Alex wants to kiss every part of her, from the crown of her head, to her birthmark, to the slightly crooked little finger that got caught in a door years ago. She draws Molly close and breathes in her scent, sweat and strawberry bubblegum and that powdery scent that is Molly's own. Molly giggles and wriggles out of her mother's grasp.

"So can I?"

She nods and looks past Molly at the windows and the tangle of dying herbs in their chipped ceramic pots. She never has time to use them; they wither and she buys new ones. The sun reflects blue and red through a patch of stained glass onto the white tiles of the floor.

There's someone else in the room. Not Molly, not Evan. Alex can feel it. She draws back. This is her vision, her meditation. No, this is real, she's home. It's 2008. She's home, there's no one else here, just Molly. She hears the crack and fizz of a beer being opened and the creak of the chair as he leans back.

"That's better."

Her vision, her reality, she will not hear his voice, its rough edges soothing her and rubbing her nerves raw at the same time, she refuses to hear it.

"Welcome home Bolly."

Alex takes him in completely, his tall form at her kitchen table. He lights a cigarette and blows smoke out in rings to Molly's delight. There's no smoking here, Alex thinks, but she doesn't want to acknowledge his presence by speaking to him. He's subtly changed, his hair is shorter, darker, he's wearing jeans and a dark blue shirt, the top few buttons open. He looks like he belongs here, he looks completely at home. Why doesn't she feel at home? She chokes back her disappointment. This isn't home, this is some sick fantasy. The world she created, her safe, messy house shatters around her like a mirror, reflecting Gene Hunt thousands of times over till everything lies in rubble at her feet. The wind catches one of David's postcards and it flutters violently, red orange, an autumn leaf after all.

She's in a park, she doesn't know which one. It's raining, around her people are unfolding umbrellas and hurrying towards shelter. Not Alex, she walks towards the nearest bench and sits down. It's raining hard now. Water pools in the creases of her jacket and plasters her hair to her face. It slides beneath her collar down her back. After a time it soaks her feet in her boots. She doesn't really feel the cold, it's irritating but not enough so for her to leave. What is she doing here? She'd thought it was to save her parents, and then she thought it was to save other people, keep scum off the streets. After the Gallagher case she wonders if there is any point at all. What happens if she dies here? Maybe she's not fighting to live, maybe she's dead already. Maybe this is hell.

Alex looks up to see it hasn't stopped raining but now she is being shielded from the wet by a large red umbrella. Someone has settled down next to her on the bench.

"No point now." She says dully. "I'm already soaked through."

"Well. It only seemed polite." Her neighbour says. She knows that voice, Bolland. She raises her head, blinking in surprise and sees that she is right, it is Bolland. He looks dry except for the bottom of his beige trousers which are dark with rain water. His dark blue jacket looks warm and water repellent. He smiles at her warmly. Why is he here? What is this? A coincidence? It can't be.

"How did you know where to find me?" She asks trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

"Find you? I was trying to get a bit of sightseeing in before it started to rain and you just looked so miserable I thought… I'm sorry, have we met? We have haven't we?" Bolland stumbles in confusion colour flowering in his face.

"Yes…" She begins unsure how to proceed.

"The funeral. The Price funeral. Am I right? I thought you looked familiar. You were standing with that policeman Carol attacked."

"Yes." She says simply.

They sit in silence for a time, the rain pounding on the umbrella overhead.

Bolland, another problem. How should she act around him? Is she his true love? Is the fact that they are both here in the park a coincidence? She didn't even know she'd be here so how would he? Was he following her? Why would he follow her? He doesn't even know her name yet. What if she never tells him her name? What if they never get to know each other properly? Would he still love her? Would that be enough? If he never loves her will he still hire Alex Price? If he doesn't hire her, then what? She will never meet and marry David Drake, she will never have Molly.

Bolland hands her a handkerchief. It smells good, fresh like washing powder and a musky scent that Alex recognises vaguely; in 16 years he'll still be using that scent. She holds the soft cotton to her nose, it makes her feel strange inside, nostalgic for the early days, her whole life in front of her, the world a terrible, wonderful place, David at her side, the thrill of new love, her confidence intact, the sweet snuffle of Molly's breathing against her shoulder, a different world millions of miles away from Gene Hunt's blue eyes.

She turns toward Bolland and extends her hand, decision made. "I'm Alex Drake, Detective Inspector."

He takes her hand and gives her another smile. She likes it, it's guileless, one of those fabulous US ones, with straight white teeth, 16 years from now he will have forgotten how to smile.

"Nicholas Bolland, failed politician."

Alex gives him her own small smile.

"That's better. You looked so sad and lost before." He says.

Alex swallows down a wayward sob, tears forming in her eyes; she blinks them away hastily, hoping the rain will camouflage them.

"I'm here another week at least and so far it's been a sad trip. I'm really just doing a good friend a favour, Carol, she knew Mr. Price. I'm afraid I never had the chance to meet them. Did you know them?"

Alex feels it's safer just to nod.

"But that's not what you're sad about is it?" He has a beautiful velvety voice, a voice to drown in.

She shakes her head.

"I'm being rude aren't I? Blame it on my boorish colonial upbringing." Bolland says. "Forgive me. I know this sounds phoney from a stranger, but if you need to talk…" He breaks off here.

His eyes study her face, they are dark brown, honest. David always used to say he was the only honest man in the CIA.

"Or maybe I can buy you a coffee? Somewhere dry, preferably."

Alex finds herself agreeing. I don't have to decide now, not for sure, she thinks. Maybe they were never lovers anyway. But she could use a friend now.


	3. Chapter 3

I hope someone is still reading this. Several real life crises kept me from going on with this but I hope I'm back on track now. Thanks so much to lilgreenmomo for reading and reviewing over and over and over again and showering me with support. Also for pimping Gene's comments! Hugs.

Thank you to Lucida Bright for the beta and for being strict when you need to be. I'm sure it'll be a better fic because of you. Cupcakes for you.

Please read and review. Reviews are nice.

"Why don't you start by telling me about that look on your face yesterday when we met at the funeral?" Bolland says. They're sitting in the first cafe they came across. Not exactly the most romantic of places, but it's warm and relatively quiet and after she dries her hair with paper towels from the ladies Alex almost feels human again. The waitress is wearing a pink t-shirt emblazoned with a band name she doesn't recognise.

They ordered tea and sandwiches and kept the conversation light. This young, pre CIA Nicholas Bolland is nothing like Alex was expecting. Bolland talks about his work; he's a lawyer and does a lot of pro bono work. He tells her about his failed campaign to be Mayor of San Francisco. She tells him a little bit about her work, the things she feels are safe to mention. Alex can't stop fidgeting, tearing the bread into little pieces, playing with a sliver of cucumber, trying to balance her spoon on her forefinger. The spoon keeps crashing to the table. Bolland reaches for it at the same time she does, they're like two teenagers accidentally brushing hands over shared popcorn at the cinema. Alex looks down at Nicholas Bolland's hand; the mutilated finger isn't just missing the tip as she previously assumed. His middle finger doesn't go past the knuckle, the fingernail of his index finger is missing too; she'd never noticed that before, in 1997 he'd always held his hands in a way that made it impossible to see them clearly.

"Why don't you tell me where you lost that?" Alex asks dodging his question. She runs a thumb over the mutilated flesh before withdrawing her hand and curling it around her cup of tea. She knows where he lost it. Everyone in the Company did. He lost it in Vietnam. He's giving her a strange, very serious look that makes her stomach flip in discomfort. She's expecting him to launch into a drawn out war story, instead he leans back at looks at her intently.

"I lost it in playing Johnny Johnny Whoops." He says; his eyes are guarded but he has a fake smile plastered on his face. "I missed." He shrugs.

"Johnny?" Alex asks confusedly. Bolland reaches across the table and takes her wrist, gently drawing her hand towards him. His touch is cool, firm but she can feel his hand tremble at first contact with her skin. He presses her palm flat on the table and spreads her fingers; Alex is shocked at her own reaction to his touch, she prickles all over with pleasure. He picks up the spoon and sets it down gently between thumb and index finger, then between index finger and middle finger, then between middle finger and ring finger, ring finger and little finger. Alex holds her breath, bracing herself for what she knows will come next. He starts out slow at first, tapping between each finger, increasing in speed until the spoon is only a blur and the dishes on the table rattle with the force of each blow. There's a fierce determination in his face, his breathing is steady, Alex can't catch her breath and she stares down at their hands in morbid fascination. If he misses, even with the spoon…she doesn't dare continue that thought. It occurs to her she should draw her hand away before it's too late but she's frozen to the spot. The clatter of the spoon when he drops it is the only sound she hears. He draws away from her, his whole body tensed, his expression stricken. Alex raises her trembling hand, fans out her fingers and exhales with relief.

There's a harsh silence now. Like a needle torn from a record, the noise abruptly ended. Bolland's hands are curled into fists. The waitress looks over at their table in mild interest then goes back to reading her trashy magazine when she sees they haven't broken anything.

Bolland apologises profusely and Alex waves his apology away at once, her heart beat slowing as she forces herself to remain seated. She has to stay. If this is what is supposed to happen and she misses it…

He never lost that finger during a childish game. He lost it in Vietnam. Laurie told her. In 1997, Laurie had been Bolland's secretary and for a time Alex's only friend in Langley. The thought of Laurie saddens Alex acutely, like an arrow to the breast. Laurie Beaufort, the lively southerner with her blond curls and ready smile, who hadn't lived past 22.

Laurie had often recounted the story, her eyes foggy with admiration; she'd known Bolland years before she ever worked for him, since she was a little girl and very nearly worshipped him; a true hero, she always said. Alex had been expecting him to be proud, to be falling over himself to tell her the story of how he was injured and lost his finger saving a friend from a grenade. She should have known better, many vets don't want to even admit they were in the war, maybe Bolland is one of them, maybe it's too early for him to deal with it. Bolland was always very much in control, wound too tight, it was one of the first things she noticed about him when she met him in 1997. She attempts a smile but only manages to draw her lips into a straight line. "You lost it during a game? Bad luck." She hopes she sounds sympathetic.

Why do we become lovers? Alex thinks. What motivation is there but a soap bubble vision of a future/past without David, without Molly? Who is this man? Does she even like him? He isn't just the kind, soft spoken man she knew in 1997, he has an edge. A darkness that scares and attracts Alex and makes her wonder if it wouldn't be better to just get up and go home.

"Sorry." Bolland says breaking the silence. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"It's okay." Alex whispers.

"It's not."

He isn't talking about the game with the spoon, he means something else entirely.

His face is twisted in pain, pale, his eyes distant and cold. She knows that look. David used to look at her like that days before their marriage ended. Alex's mouth is bone dry. She thinks desperately of Gene and the soft touch of his lips upon her body and how it's all over now and that she's here sitting across from this man she barely knows, contemplating a love affair with him. She swallows painfully.

"Vietnam." Bolland says; he spits the word out so quickly, as if it burned his tongue. "I was there in'66; I volunteered, believe it or not. Right out of college; never worked a day in my life." He shakes his head as if he can't believe it himself.

"Five months in, my platoon saw some action. There was a grenade coming towards my buddy. I don't know how I did it, I caught it. Just like a baseball Alex, I caught it and pushed him out of the way. I held it in my hand for a split second; I guess I didn't throw it away fast enough. They saved most of the hand; the missing finger is little more than a souvenir now."

He breaks off here and sets his tea cup down on the table with a clatter; half of its contents spills across the table and mingles with the sugar Alex has been absentmindedly spreading with the tip of her finger.

"We're making a mess." She mutters.

"We are." Bolland says. "I'm making a mess." He brushes a hand over his hair and sighs; he looks younger with his hair tousled like an urchin.

"What was it like there?" Alex asks at last, the psychologist in her gaining the upper hand.

"Vietnam? It was like landing on another planet." Bolland says. There's real awe in his voice. "The smell of the earth, the colour of the sky, the sounds of the jungle, nothing in the world could have prepared me for it." He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "I brought you here to talk about your problems. I mean, if you feel like it. And here I am bringing up Nam." He says.

"No, I'm glad you did. It's good to talk about these things, you know." Alex says encouragingly.

Bolland gives her a sad smile. "Maybe you ought to try it then."

She drags her finger through the wet sugar drawing random patterns in it. She can't talk about it. Not with him, not with Gene, not with Shaz. If she even tries she'll end up in an asylum.

"Maybe I will one day." She says. "Have you talked about the war since it happened?" She asks.

"I did try to set up some aid programs for veterans while I was campaigning for Mayor of San Francisco. Carol felt it was a good angle: war hero. So I talked about it but not really. You tend to make it sound like something that just happened to you, when you're up there in front of people. Instead of something you chose for yourself. I haven't really talked to anyone about it properly since Allison."

"Allison?" Alex asks.

"My ex-wife. We used to talk about everything before the divorce. Even when we were fighting."

"So you're divorced. I am as well. Any children?" She knows he has children, she met the daughter once, she looked nothing liked him, apparently the spitting image of Allison.

"Three. I mean two."

"Aren't you sure?" Alex smiles.

"Two. Sue is 13. Gerard is 8. There was another girl. She died when she was 2. Drowned." His tone is conversational, calm; he smiles as if to reassure her.

Alex feels her stomach wrench in guilt. "I'm so sorry. That must have been horrible for you. " What can she say to this? This was something she hadn't known about him. She reaches over and presses him arm gently. "What was her name?"

"Molly."

At the sound of that name Alex's her throat is tight. Molly! Her grandmother's name had been Molly, David hadn't liked the name at first but towards the end of the pregnancy he'd been rather insistent they name the baby Molly after all. A favour to a friend, he'd said. She'd always assumed he'd changed his mind about her choice of name but was too proud to admit it. Was the friend Bolland? Alex forces herself to concentrate on what he's saying.

"It just happened so fast. She was playing near the pond; Sue was supposed to be watching her, she went under… Allison, she just stopped… we never really talked after that. She blamed me, I guess. I should have been there. Should have saved her."

Alex drags her finger through the sugar. "I can't imagine what it must be like for you. I can't think of anything worse than outliving your child," she says. I should have been there, she thinks. I should be there now. In the end all that really matters is getting back to Molly.

"You have children?" Bolland asks. He doesn't wait for Alex to answer him. "Forgive me. There's something about you, something wistful about you, something tragic."

I was shot. I woke up here in 1981 away from anything that makes sense, away from my child; I met a man who forced himself into my heart with brute strength only to abandon me at the first obstacle.

She doesn't answer him. He takes her hand in his own and holds it for a while and she surprises herself again by letting him.

"You don't have to say anything, Alex. I should probably shut up before you have me committed." He says looking down at their hands in the sugar. Alex looks down as well; she's used her finger to create a pattern of spirals and sunbursts in the sugar. Like the patterns on Jacob Lacey's body. She picks up her napkin to wipe the mess away and freezes. She's seen these patterns before. Where has she seen them before? A child's drawing, sunbursts and swirls. Suddenly all she can think of is getting home to her flat above Luigi's and hiding under her duvet.

"I have to go now." Alex says abruptly. She needs to get home; she needs to think this through. The sooner she gets home the sooner she can start making connections.

Bolland's confusion is instantly apparent. The man she knew in 1997, the Director of Support, was an entirely different creature. Someone who could mask his emotions, control his voice, formulate each sentence with exquisite care. Bolland at 36, before he even considered working for the CIA, is refreshingly transparent.

"Did I say something wrong?" He asks.

Alex shakes her head. She pulls her jacket back on and stands up. "Thank you for the tea."

She can't stay here another minute. She'll worry about Bolland later after she thinks about the serial killer. Intense relief almost blinds her. She can walk away; she doesn't have to decide now.

But Bolland has other ideas. He grabs her hand. "This is when you take off and I never see you again, right?"

Alex doesn't trust herself to speak. She shakes her head minimally. His thumb presses down on her wrist as if he's checking her pulse.

"I need to say this before you go." Bolland starts. He hesitates for a few seconds. "I'm in love with you."

There's an awkward silence. She knew this was coming, or something to this effect. Why then is every nerve in her body singing its confusion?

"You're probably going to say something like: but you just met me. And I don't want to come across as a lunatic…" Bolland breaks off again. "Probably too late for that, on second thought."

Alex can't help but chuckle at his last words. A smile radiant as the sun warms his features. What to say to this? How should she react? What's the right step? How easy just to run, back to Gene, to throw herself into his arms and pretend everything is fine. No.

"You don't have to say anything, Alex. I just needed to say it now, before you leave and I never get the chance. It's rare to meet someone so… amazing, so… God, what a spot I've put you on."

"No, no." Alex says. "I want to say something. I'm flattered. Really I am. But I barely know you." She stops for a moment searching for the right words. No burning bridges she thinks. It isn't just that though. She really did feel safe and happy these last few hours with him. She felt a sort of connection.

"That can be remedied though, can't it?" Alex concludes. She sounds too cheerful, too confident. Bolland isn't buying it. He smiles wistfully and nods.

"Why don't I walk you home?" He offers.

Alex nods her assent. They walk a while, close but not touching. Alex's heart is playing a little game with her, skipping beats. She doesn't want him to walk her all the way to Luigi's yet at the same time refuses to skulk in the shadows; she's an adult woman, capable of making her own decisions. They stop a few streets away from the restaurant having walked the whole way in silence. Alex feels a prickle of fear on her scalp when he offers her his hand to say goodbye. It may be too late already. If her future depends on what happens with Bolland she should take the step now.

"If you need me…" Bolland pauses. His eyes are dark with unspoken words. He swallows before continuing. "If you need someone to talk to again. Please. Anytime, night or day."

He hands her a slip of paper stamped with the name of a hotel. Alex takes it quickly without reading the number, crumpling it slightly as she shoves it into her jacket pocket. She gives his hand a brief squeeze. She doesn't know what to say to him now. The moment is broken.

"Thank you for a lovely afternoon." She says politely. She walks away from him not stopping to turn around. It's already dark; CID will be retiring to Luigi's around now. Soon her legs carry her back to the Italian restaurant. At the familiar scents and sights of the restaurant the lump in Alex's throat dissolves. She lets the relief rip through her like an electrical current. She doesn't need to start an affair with Bolland. She doesn't need to do anything she doesn't want to. She decides what she'd really like now is a glass of red wine. Luigi materialises by her side.

"Maybe Signora would prefer to drink in the comfort of her own home?" The Italian says. There's brittleness in his voice Alex has never noticed before. He grabs hold of Alex's arm to steer her towards the stairs.

Too late. She's already spotted Hunt sitting at the bar. He seems out of focus sitting by himself, his back turned away from Ray and Chris and Shaz. He's holding a glass of whisky in one hand and the bottle in the other. His tie is discarded and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. His arms look strong, his hands beautiful. She has seen his hands streaked in blood after a fight and tenderly encircling her wrist after the act of love, now they spark an unexpected terror in her. He could hurt her.

"Drink, Bolly?"

His voice is impossibly steady and soft. Alex can tell he's drunk because of the effort he's making. His eyes are fierce and blood shot.

"I don't want a drink, thanks." Alex lies, looking desperately toward the stairs. He presses a glass into her hand anyway.

"Course you do. What you doing back here so soon, Alex? Ray informs me he caught you strolling in the moonlight with that lanky yank from the funeral."

Alex's heart is pounding so hard she can barely raise her head to look at him.

"I sent you home because I was worried about you. Because you've lost it. And part of that may be down to me. And you… you…" He stops here. It takes Alex a while to realise that shiver of emotion in his voice is rage. She considers taking his hands in her own and reassuring him that Bolland is no one important. One look from Hunt is enough to silence her.

"You said you recognised him," he continues.

What can she say to this? All at once Alex is bone tired. She can't keep all her lies separate anymore. If she could just tell him the truth she'd be free. The whole truth, Molly and the Prices, Layton and Bolland. Would he believe her? How would he take the truth? Would she believe it if she were Gene? Alex remains silent as Hunt pours himself another glass. He knocks it back.

"Do you want to tell me something Bolly?" He asks.

"It's none of your business." Alex manages to choke out, her voice hoarse with emotion. "You said maybe we shouldn't have. You said…" She breaks off there, sloshing the rest of the whisky out of the glass when she sets it down on the counter.

"It is my bloody business. I asked you a simple question. Answer it."

"What? What question?"

"Yes or no?"

He must mean Bolland. Whether there's something between them. "No. No. No!" Alex half shouts.

The look on Gene's face is terrifying. Pale as death, splotched with crimson. His lips are drawn back away from his teeth in a kind of wolfish grin. He nods deliberately, stiffly.

"That's what I thought, love." He says.

Alex has never heard him sound this cold. She has a feeling she's missing something, something crucial, then he takes her chin in his hand and jerks her head forward. The pain is excruciating. His breath reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, sharp twists of fear and excitement stab her stomach. Alex blinks her eyes shut, her breath short. When he kisses her she isn't really surprised. It's over in half a second. She isn't even sure it really happened. His lips stab hers, his teeth scrape hers. It feels like the ultimate betrayal. She leans into him for the second kiss. And he laughs at her. It's a snort of laughter, an ugly sound not his usual warm, hearty chuckle.

"All right then. Get out of my sight." He says his voice so soft, so dangerous, a caress in her ear. Alex hesitates, gripping the edge of the table with both hands.

"Get out!" He shouts abruptly. The whole bar turns to stare at them; the silence in the room is sharp as a knife. People must have seen him kiss her but Alex is beyond worrying about professionalism and Hunt is too drunk to care.

"And what the hell are you lot staring at?" He roars.

Alex doesn't wait to see what happens next. She manages to hold back the tears till she's safe in her flat. For a long time she sits on the floor, incapable of moving. Tears slide down her cheeks in silence. She's really lost him. She isn't sure how, she doesn't know why. The profound sadness of this truth envelopes her. And then she feels the rage bubbling up from deep inside her. It bursts forth from her in spurts, in wracking sobs. She wants to rip pictures from the walls and sweep objects from the coffee table, to break all the dishes in the kitchen. Her eyes fall on the telephone first though. Before she knows what's happening she's dipped into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the scrap of paper with Bollie's telephone number on it. Fuck Gene Hunt, Alex thinks.

"You wanted to know about that look on my face." Alex says when she hears him say hello.

"Yes." Bolland says warily.

"What do you think it meant?"

"I hoped it meant you felt the same as I did when I first laid eyes on you." He answers.

"What was that?" She closes her eyes now, part of her is starving for his answer and another part of her wishes he would remain silent.

"That I knew you. That I wanted to know everything about you. That knowing you would make a difference in my life." He says, his tone is direct, matter of fact. He doesn't sound like a man making love to a woman, he sounds like he's telling her the unvarnished truth.

"That's what I felt." Alex says and means every word.


End file.
